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Sheriff James E. Dunwall steps out of his cruiser and takes note of the sparkling stars beginning to wane before oncoming first light. His leather utility belt creaks as he settles its weight back to a comfortable position below his solid belly.
The windows of the diner beam like a lighthouse in the pre-dawn, beckoning to wanderers who brave the relentless, unbounded elements of this place. The cozy glow frames hospitable Americana: chatty, affable waitresses attending grateful, amiable travelers.
Gravel crunches beneath his boots in the quietus, and he looks around in unease. Muted laughter draws his attention to a small group of people standing near the road. He glances again at the rising light on the horizon — not long ’til sunrise. He should’a remembered ta get here early.
He mentally shakes off his heebie-jeebies and nods to the people sitting on the benches.
He pulls open the heavy glass door and a gust of air immediately immerses his face like a splash of cool water. A restless sea of heads and the low hum of conversation punctuated by clinking silverware greet him. The sizzle of the busy griddle brings the aroma of savory bacon and strong coffee to ease his discontent.
He spots a seat further down the counter than he’d like, but the only other one is near the kitchen door; all the booths are full.
“Mornin’, Sheriff — coffee comin’ up.”
Miss Senna hustles by, her bright greeting pulls him further out of his event-morning funk. The girl is fair ta look at and rarely in a bad mood, always seems to be movin’ and gettin’ things done. She’ll make Orrin a fine wife.
Looking around, he doesn’t see many townsfolk and settles down beside Dusty, one of Pete Elgin’s wiry cowboys, who never misses the annual event. He hopes to at least get his coffee before the questions start, but it’s not to be.
“Sheriff, is it true that the highway is cursed?” A woman in the booth behind him has the attention of the surrounding diners. “Aren’t you afraid of getting killed out on that road?”
“There is no curse.” Annoyance tugs at his teetering disposition. “People die out there of their own foolishness,” he admonishes, loud enough for it to carry and dispel excited whispers, “not bein’ prepared for a breakdown, runnin’ outta gas, accidents…”
The talk picks back up, but the tone is laced with disgruntled confusion. He’s aware of the locals’ looks of concern — these strangers spend money here, a small boon for their small town, but this is a sore subject for him.
The passage of years can’t erase the sight of the distant, shimmering truck; the seething shadow beside it.
“Tell ‘em ‘bout the motorcycle,” Dusty gruffs — and saves the day.
He shoots him a glance of gratitude and eyes Dusty’s vigorous salting of his fried potatoes. A whiff of sharp green bell pepper and the pungent bite of sweet onion convince him to order them with his steak and eggs.
“For Pete’s sake, Dusty, it’s been years since that happened.”
“Highway’s cursed,” Mister Plano, who runs the feed store, mutters around his yolky toast.
“It ain't cursed,” he growls, irritated.
“But it's darn sure haunted,” opines Miss Marisa, as she passes on through with someone’s breakfast.
He puffs out a breath in defeat. Can’t argue with that.
==========
He measures time by his losses.
As a kid an achievement in school would spark a memory of his mother. He imagines her sittin’ there with his grandparents, clappin’ and grinnin’. Would she have been proud of him? And then he would count the number of years since his mother’s death.
After his triumphs in college he thought of her and his grandfather. He would look back across the span of years they’d been gone as he shared each award earned at his job with his proud grandmother.
Every spring, as he begins the journey to his next job, he ciphers the years from his grandmother’s death.
He sold everythin’, quit his job and started as a day worker at the Elgin ranch. He took his life back to where it began; lookin’ to slow the pace of his life and change who he was. Proved himself to be canny at workin’ cattle, which brought him more money and led to jobs at various ranches across the west.
He’s been offered a permanent place several times, but he can’t tamp down his restlessness. More and more he’s been wonderin’ if he’ll ever settle down. The wide open sky and untamed terrain soothe his forlorn spirit. The brutal work, unchanged for centuries, hew and whittle him down ’til there’s nothin’ left ta hang a memory on.
But here in the truck those memories are waiting to keep him company on the long drive north.
‘You can run, but you cain’t hide,’ his grandfather used ta say.
He’s been on the road almost two hours when a metallic rattle jolts him out of somber thoughts. The burned out dash lights offer no clue and before he can pull over, a loud bang has him stomping the clutch and guiding the wounded truck to the side of the road.
He wrestles the dented hood up, cursing the blast of heat that envelops him, but can’t see anything wrong. Crawling under the truck gleans him no answers either. He twists the key in the ignition, but aside from the clicking of the solenoid — nothing; it won’t even turn over.
The urgency fluttering in his chest scuttles to his gut and settles in dread. He bangs the hood down.
Damn truck.
The second he thinks it he’s filled with remorse. Bad-mouthin’ the old truck was like gettin’ angry at a faithful old horse for stumblin’. The hot metal stings his hands as he lingers in apology.
He steps out onto the road and looks north toward town, then south to the Elgin ranch. The town is closer, but there ain’t no way he’ll make it afoot. His only hope is someone comin’ along and givin’ him a ride ta town. He’ll have Zeke come tow the truck and figure out what ta do then.
He grabs the leftover hardtack, a plastic jug of water out of the truck bed and hunkers down on the shady side. He squints up into the brilliant sky as he swipes the moisture from his forehead and scans the vast plain of chaparral. The distant mountains offer no comfort of civilization, so he settles down in the dust to wait.
==
Should’a kept more spare parts with him — can’t fix a timin’ chain though — is it the timin’ chain? Back when he and his grandfather worked on the tractor….. how many years since that day….
He presses his lips together, draws a sharp breath. No.
No more countin’.
==
He longs for the cool, green mountains of the summer job waitin’ up in Idaho.
The spring round-up at the Elgin ranch took three days more than expected, so he stayed back. Tasked with gatherin’ the remnants outta the jerk, it had slowed him up considerable. He was so keen ta get movin’ to his next job he forgot about Mrs. Elgin. She always sent him on his way with enough food ta last a couple a days.
A pang of regret follows the thought of never sayin’ goodbye to her and then rebukes himself for his lapse of hope.
No sense in crossin’ the river ’til ya come to it.
==
He gags down the last swig of warm water, gnaws through the rest a the hardtack and can’t tell if the gripe in his belly is hunger or fear. Lost count a how many times he’s tried ta start the dead truck.
Where is everybody? Ya’d think someone had business at the ranch. How many hours since he left …….
==
The shade of the truck holds no relief, the metal chassis can melt skin.
He sucks salty tears from his dusty fingers as the cool night air leeches the heat from his parched skin.
He rummages through his small pile of gear in the corner of the truck bed, searches through his possibles stashed on the floorboard in the cab, hopin’ for a miracle jug of water he’s overlooked.
More and more his footprint upon this Earth has dwindled down — to him, the truck, and his possessions. It’s no wonder why no one’s missed him.
He’s been fadin’ away for years.
==========
“People been hearin’ that motorcycle long before I was born, but it’s a rare thing. I can only think of four people that’s heard it over the span of decades.”
Dusty stops chewin’ and stares at his coffee cup. He figures if Dusty can pull him out of his own deep well of guilt, he’ll do the same.
“Jock Wellan, the old Marine Corp veteran who took over this diner back in the seventies, heard that motorcycle come up in nineteen ninety-three and stop out by the parkin’ lot, but didn’t see nothin’.”
“Anybody know who it is?” someone asks from down the counter.
“Emilina found a report in the old county records, wrote up in nineteen fifty-two by Sheriff Ketter. Ketter was a good lookin’ fella, his wife was a looker too, but crazy. He had a bad habit a shackin’ up with all the lonely ladies; people made bets as to who would kill ‘im first: an angry husband or his wife.”
“May he rest in peace,” Miss Marisa quietly admonishes as she places his coffee in front of him.
“Anyways,” he nods, dutifully repentant, “they found a body, no ID. Ketter figured the man got caught by a bad storm that rolled through a few days before and tried ta ride through it.”
He winces as he swallows a mouthful of hot coffee. “Must a been goin’ fast, wouldn't a found him if not for… the buzzards.” Dusty gives him a quick look at his pause. “Motorcycle was all twisted up, no plate, deep in the scrub; he was busted up bad.”
He takes a more cautious sip of the brew and contentment flows through his body in its wake. He gives Miss Marisa a wink and reassured at his caffeinated bliss, she marches off to ensure someone else’s good start to the new day.
He eyes her swaying bottom and wonders if she’ll be too tired later tonight for a quick one on top the hood of his cruiser.
“Years later they say Ketter stopped to take a leak and heard a motorcycle go by in a big damn hurry; he didn’t see a thing though.”
Mister Plano gives him a speculative look. “I heard it spooked ‘im pretty bad.”
The woman in the booth picks up on Plano’s pointed remark. “Have you ever heard it?”
“Only the one time,” the sheriff looks down at his coffee and squeezes the back of his neck, “almost eight years ago. I was comin’ from the Elgin ranch and it come from behind; sounded like it came right through my cruiser. I’ll admit it gave me a start. I slammed on the brakes and my ears rang a good ten minutes.”
His atonement complete, Miss Senna stops in front of him with an expectant smile and takes his order.
========== 🂡 🂡 🂨 🂨 ==========
'It’s alright; your mom’s gone on ahead, waiting to welcome us home.’
The memory of her gentle touch, soft voice, and warm hugs is all he has of her.
‘It’s alright; your grandpa is fine. He’s with your mother now.’
The terrible pall of quietus at the wake, as he did his chores, as they ate supper.
‘Raise your hand to me and see what it gets you!’
Looking up from the ground as his grandmother got right up in his father’s red face.
‘It’s alright…’
He jerks awake and scrambles around the truck to the road.
A few paces past the back end of the truck shows him a whole lotta nothin’ down the road toward the ranch. Three and a half damn days and not a soul has traveled between the ranch and town.
He’d gagged down the last swig of warm water yesterday. Gnawed on the hardtack and can’t tell if the gripe in his belly is hunger or fear.
Lost count a how many times he’s tried ta start the dead truck.
He turns and walks the opposite direction, stops in the middle of the empty road and scrubs his face with both hands.
He tries to remember the dream, but it slips away like dreams tend to do, like a life…
The span of years between them are as wide as the Grand Canyon; he can’t see them anymore, nor hear their voices.
The sky is a spectrum of blue: pale to dark, day to night; another endless cycle where he’s bein’ left behind.
No one is comin’; no one left ta come. He cain’t wait no more.
Walking back toward the truck he spots an anomaly way back along where the ribbon of road disappears at the horizon. A muted growl swells into the full-throated roar of a motorcycle going all out. The dark blotch grows bigger in the shimmering air and transfigures into a man on a motorcycle.
The rider roars up and rolls to a rumbling stop, keeping his distance. He looks him up and down, revs the engine to a teeth-clenching decibel, then shuts it off.
The oppressive silence that has been his only company seems as loud as the deafening percussion had been.
Never breaking eye contact, the man leans to the right, slowly lowers the kick-stand and settles in quiet expectation. Unsure what to do in the face of the rider’s bold appraisal, he braces himself for stereotypical disdain and holds his tongue at his impolite manner.
He’s a big fella, and if he don’t mind his own manners, he could be stranded all over again.
The guy lifts his chin. “You a real cowboy?”
Well now — it’s gotta be the belt buckle. He nods once as he tries to place the rider’s accent.
The man crosses his arms and narrows his assessment. “Where’s your hat?”
“In the truck.”
He tilts his head without changing his expression.
Time ta push back a little. “Boots don’t count for nuthin’, huh?”
The rider looks down at his feet and concedes with a thoughtful nod. His eyes flick to the truck, “You wanna ride?”
He shoots a dubious look at the rear seat over the fender, then looks around the conspicuously empty road.
“Well, that’s just insulting,” the rider says with a wry grin.
His trepidation eases at the friendly mirth in his eyes. The dimples help too.
He looks back at the crooked, old truck. He should’a gotten rid of it a long time ago. The ’68 Ford had belonged to his grandfather.
The rider looks at the truck and then back at him, patiently waiting for his choice. Like he has one — stayin’ here? Not an option.
The low rumble of thunder draws their eyes to the west.
A gust of wind hisses through the chaparral changes to a low, mournful howl across the prairie. He pushes down the irrational urge to head for the safety of the old truck.
“It’s now or never,” the rider asserts. He flips the kick-stand up and shoves the kick-start down hard, bringing the machine to life. The rider gives him a look.
The word ‘never’ sends a chill through him.
He puts his foot on the peg and swings a leg over the seat, steadying himself on the rider’s shoulders. He’s solid — heavy muscle with no give to him.
“Hold on.”
He ain’t kiddin’. His polite grip on the rider’s shoulders turns into a frantic hug across his torso as the motorcycle leaps forward with a sound akin to the jake brake of a runaway semi-truck.
He grits his teeth as acceleration has the wind roaring in his ears, dulling the clatter of the engine.
The rider writhes and jerks inside the circle of his arms, trying to keep the motorcycle on course against the aggression of the storm. He hides his face away from the sting of grit in the air and tries to stay with him, shifting his point of gravity as the bike violently weaves and jerks, slows and surges.
He pulls himself closer, balls-to-ass, his thighs grip the man more tightly than any bull he’d rode in his youth, fingers dig into the man's ribs and chest; any thought of propriety gone with the wind.
If he gets any closer he’s gonna have ta propose.
The wind pushes them sideways, tilts them hard; they lean the opposite way, counter-balancing, pulling it back up. The rear of the bike comes out from under them and pitches low to the opposite side.
They both put a leg down to catch the fall and the impact jolts hard, but up she comes, and the rider gets it straightened out and back on the road.
The machine wobbles through another malicious shove. A wall of gray, from cloud to earth, is pounding across the flatland; a filament of distant lightning flutters across the seething sky.
It’s comin’ from the west — they’re headin’ north. There’s no way they can outrun it, they’re gonna wreck if they don’t find shelter.
About the time he remembers old man Trenton’s shack he spots its roof line, barely visible in the distance.
He slaps the rider’s shoulder and jabs a finger ahead. The rider brings the throttle down quick and the engine goes off like firecrackers. He fully expects the damn thing to explode.
He points again, and the rider veers off the hardtop onto a caliche path through the scrub.
The shack has took a beatin’ since Trenton died.
They roll up under the sagging roof that had sheltered many a cowpoke, come to help him sip his homemade sin. He frowns at the chairs lined up along the weedy wall as he swings off the machine.
He steps through the open door and stops short in horrified shock.
All of Trenton’s possibles are here, as if he had just stepped out — hangin’ on plank walls, sittin’ on scrap lumber shelves, neatly arranged on the wooden table — covered in a mantle of dust.
All them years a runnin’ hasn’t done any good. He’s back to that moment: standing in the old farmhouse after the funeral, not quite believin’ she was gone, listenin’ for her to call out at the bang of the screen door, surrounded by all her possessions in an empty house.
He spooks like a horse when the rider hollers at him to hold the door and in he comes, motorcycle and all. The dusty sunlight swirls around him as the engine rattles like a jack hammer in the small space.
They drop down low at the oncoming tsunami of wind that pounds into the shack. The structure shifts: alarming pops and groans, rattling window panes, and wind shrieking through every crevice. Daylight dims to dusk as the rain hits the tin roof like scattershot.
He catches the flapping screen door and latches it, slams the inside door shut but the doorknob rattles useless, so he jams a chair under it.
Water patters through the shack and percusses a merry tune across the wooden table, tin dishes, glass jars, hisses across the hot tail pipe. It tickles its way down his head and spurs him to look for cover.
The rider has the same idea and grabs the other end of the wood table.
“Over by the stove,” he hollers, and they carry the heavy table over to the pot-bellied stove. If the shack goes, the stove will be heavy enough ta stay put.
A flash and pop sends them scrambling under the table, and they trade a sheepish glance as the rumble passes overhead and rolls on through. Wind clatters down the stove-pipe and the rickety screen door bangs against the doorframe like someone desperately trying to get in.
Fluttering bursts of light reflect long streamers of glittering water against the dark, and expose brief glimpses of an obituary.
The pitcher and basin for washing up and cleaning dishes over by the pump, a washboard on the wall, the plate and cup on the floor, tumbled from a table set for one.
The copper still, cold and silent in the shadowed lean-to.
He’s back to that empty farmhouse, walls covered in a lifetime of moments. Memories tucked into a worn recliner, a quilt over the back; plates and cups filled with warm meals, good coffee, and cold lemonade.
How he went through their possessions that told the story of their life: black and white photos, cane poles, old rifles, his grandfather’s Sunday suit, a spangled rodeo costume, old costume jewelry. A faded corsage from a dance attended long ago.
The hand-stitched quilt her mother had made for her new marriage.
Trenton’s small bed, made up neat and fouled with dust — he was found outside in the dust — dust to dust….
A blinding flash of light triggers a clap of thunder that sends a small temblor through the ground. The storm shrieks in a breath, opens its deep maw, and howls somewhere out there across the flatland.
He clenches his teeth to keep it down but his grief wells up and spills down his face. A quick shake of his head at the touch on his shoulder, and the rider whispers — “It’s alright….”
The sob kicks out of his chest and bursts from his mouth, shaking his body. He tries to gasp it back in but there’s no stopping it.
The rider gathers him up and gently rocks him as he cries.
His grandmother had hidden her cancer, not wanting to bother him with what she thought she could handle on her own, not wanting to pull him away from his important job, proud of his accomplishments and awards, which were now mouldering in a landfill somewhere.
Years of grief and guilt pour out of him, leaving him deflated and limp; he is hollow, with nothing left to fill him up. The anger at his weakness is squeezed out of him by a tight grip of concern; there is no disdain or judgement in the body supporting him so, he lets go, too weary to fight against the comfort and strength offered.
‘It’s alright,’ her skin and bones whisper from her deathbed.
The fading light through the window blinds, bone-white walls, the monitor counting the seconds left.
He’s made such a terrible mistake: stepped out into the world to make his mark, and left her behind, thinking she would always be there.
He sits there in disbelief and cannot turn loose of her hand.
“I’m sorry,’ he whispers — and opens his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” the rider whispers into his hair, squeezes his shoulder again, “we should go; sun’s almost up.”
He is loathe to leave the warmth that cradles him, but he’s leaned on the fella to the point of embarrassment.
They brush the dirt from their pants, he un-wedges the chair and opens the doors to the chill air, and the rider splishes through the puddles to his machine.
He wanders over to the pitcher and basin, but there’s not enough water in them to prime the pump. He pumps the handle anyway and receives a parched sigh.
On a crate beside the bed sits a pair of wire-rim glasses, a ragged paperback, and a dirty, framed photograph that the rain has run across like tears. He brushes away the dirt to reveal two women and a boy with sunny smiles, hanging clothes on a line in the bright sunshine.
The rider looks up from wiping down the motorcycle. “Did you know him?”
“Nope,” he slowly shakes his head, “not really. Only been here a couple a times,” — he nods toward the still — “he made some a the best moonshine around.”
He snorts a short laugh. “My nonno makes a run now and then to make ends meet. You live around here?”
“Just passin’ through — you local?”
That gets him a full out laugh.
“Chicago.”
“Figured — ya got a slight accent,” in answer to his puzzled look.
“So do you.” His small grin and the twinkle in his eye assures him there is no offense. He grins back and they both laugh.
He approaches slowly and extends his hand. “My name is Levon.”
The rider blinks, smiles, and quickly grasps his hand. “Joe.”
Heat blooms in his cheeks and, to his dismay, he can’t keep from looking down at his feet. He feels off balance and can’t for the life of him, think of what to say next. Talkin’ and singin’ ta livestock just don’t prepare ya for civilized conversation.
Thankfully, Joe is a little more socially inclined.
"Where do you live?”
He looks back toward the direction of the ranch before he can help it, and sighs in frustration at his slip up, because now….
“Your truck?” The last word has an up-note of disbelief.
He lifts his chin as his pride kicks in. “I work cattle for hire. I’m headin’ for a job up north, near the Canadian border, watchin’ a herd for the summer in the mountains.”
“I’m traveling too,” he sounds contrite, “I’ve been gone a long time. I had a fight with my uncle, and I don’t know what I’m gonna do because I don’t believe I was wrong, but I said some terrible things. I’m going to apologize. I want to go home, I miss my family,” he finishes quietly.
“Bet they’ll be glad ta see ya. It just don’t feel right when someone ya love ain’t home.”
It’s hard to determine the look in Joe’s eyes in the dim light, but whatever it is, it’s intense, and he doesn’t look away — he backs up, and something metallic clinks at his feet.
Trenton’s tin coffee cup and plate.
He knows Trenton ain’t comin’ back, but it don’t seem respectful ta leave his home in disarray.
And Joe’s right there with him, lifting the other end of the table. He grabs the chair and slides it under, and Joe — hands him the cup and plate.
He can clearly see what’s in his dark eyes, and it makes him tremble. Joe suddenly stiffens and looks over his shoulder.
“We need to go.”
He trots over to the machine, violently kick-starts it, and the motorcycle blasts apart the entire night.
A little bent outta shape, he stalks out the door; it’s too early in the mornin’ for all this noise.
Joe revs the throttle a few times comin’ through the door, and then he drops in behind him, looking back wistfully at the old shack. He wouldn’t a minded stayin’ a while.
Good-bye Trenton.
“Hold on.”
Oh hell — he holds on for dear life as Joe guns it, and the motorcycle rooster-tails it down the path. They come roarin’ out onto the hardtop, leanin’ hard while he cusses the whole way, Joe laughin’ in counterpoint.
Now that they ain’t fightin’ the wind, the clatter mellows out to a deep, steady rumble. They swiftly skim the earth at a velocity no horse could hope to match, as close to flyin’ as mortal man can get. He breathes in the rain-fresh open air, fills his sight with the immense spread of stars above and soaks in the warmth of someone to share it.
He’s got a feelin’ that Joe might want ta stick around a while; each time he tries ta put a respectable distance betwixt them, the bike wobbles sharp and he tightens his grip. He cain’t remember the last time he was this close to another person and somehow, he thinks Joe knows it.
What would life be like with a companion? Excitement fizzes up inside him, and he tries to douse it. Joe doesn’t seem like the cowhand type which means pickin’ up and travelin’ with him.
As the diner comes into view he’s surprised by a twinge of disappointment instead of relief.
He’s gotten attached a little too quick, and if there’s one hard lesson he’s learned over the years it’s: nothin’ lasts. Ya gotta be able ta stand on yer own. Lettin’ yer guard down leads ta pain, and he’s had all he can take. It’s not like Joe is really gonna ask. Time ta let it go.
Joe slows them down, and the motorcycle complains loudly but rolls to a stop alongside the diner parking lot. He swings a leg over the seat, and Joe shuts the machine down.
He looks at Joe lookin’ at him and figures it’s his turn ta try some civilized conversation.
“Ya know, a horse is a helluva lot quieter.”
“Maybe,” — he pretends to consider — “but at least it doesn’t try to buck me off.”
“Like hell it didn’t.” As they both laugh it occurs to him they have more in common than he first reckoned.
“Let me buy ya breakfast,” he asks against his better judgment. He’s got that look in his eyes again, the one that makes him shake.
“Come with me.”
Even suspectin’ this was comin’, it’s still a shock, and the fear kicks in.
He longs ta say yes, but realizes he cain’t do it. He’s been on this path so long, he doesn’t know any other way. He has nothin’ left to offer anyone, and as soon as Joe figures it out, he’ll be gone — just like the others.
He looks to the ground, his face hot as he lies.
“I cain’t; I got a job waitin’ and what little I own is in that truck,” — he looks back down the road — “I just cain’t leave it.”
The rider nods slowly, as if he expected his answer.
“Ya sure I can’t buy ya some breakfast?” He asks a little awkwardly, reluctant to part ways.
“No,” he replies sadly, “I’m heading for home.”
He doesn’t want this to end, but doesn’t know how to say so. “Thanks for savin’ my life.”
The plea in the rider’s eyes tugs at his heart. “Vai con Dio.”
He gives a solemn nod and turns to go, but halts as a terrible wrongness, welling up….
And looks back, but his companion is gone. He looks around in confusion at the empty road. Fear blooms in his chest, cold and sharp, and shrivels into an ache of inexplicable loss.
He’s done it again; walked away and left someone behind and in turn, he’s been left.
He shivers away the last memory of his warmth.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the sun flashes above the horizon.
Do they remember him?
===============================================
The crowd quietly scuffs the gravel, speak in hushed voices.
The dawn blooms on the horizon, the last star twinkles in the west.
A collective catch of breath, grasping hands, entwining arms — soft exclamations of sorrow.
He hates this. Every year, on display, but Dusty can’t look away from the uncanny sight; a moment captured in time. His chest aches at the look of grief on his face, the longing lean of his stance in the dust beside a road that goes on forever.
Every year is the same.
Shirt the color of the midday moon, jeans the slate of the distant mountains, boots the hue of parched earth.
“He’s the West, personified,” Miss Senna always whispers in reverence.
The light flashes at his belt buckle, catches the gold of his hair and halos his ethereal countenance of earnest regret.
“He’s a lost angel.” Miss Marisa asserts in perpetual authority.
Dusty removes his cowboy hat, tears roll down his face.
“That damn truck; I should’a patrolled that road every day.…,” the sheriff growls, every damn year.
The first rays of the morning sun cut through him — and he’s gone.
=================================
EPILOGUE
Sheriff Dunwall walks over to meet Zeke and his mighty tow truck as they rumble into the diner parking lot. The big diesel growls over the popping gravel, and the keen of the approaching storm. Gusts of wind clink the drooping chains together like a playful cat, tousles his sparse hair, and tugs at the sleeves of his shirt. Small groups of waiting people huddle together against the lash of grit in the air.
“Mornin’, Sheriff — ” Zeke hollers over the low howl of wind. He hops down and slams the door, nodding toward the west, “ — gonna be a bad one, yeah?”
“Sure is — you get a call?”
“Pete Elgin needs help with a tire change on the big ol’ Massey. Reckoned I’d get breakfast and head on down after the storm goes through.”
A distant grumble has them looking toward the advancing storm, and he resists the urge to duck his head as the shadow of low ceiling of clouds roll over them.
He looks toward the crossroads. “Don’t believe we’ll see ‘im this year.”
Zeke nods toward the diner. “Place is packed.”
Dusty walks up and shakes his head, “Gettin’ more crowded ever’ year.”
They turn to the distant, sharp staccato of valves popping through the roar of an engine.
"Judas H. Priest, Jim," Dusty cups his ear to hear better, “is that…?”
“Glory be — here he comes.”
The approaching racket catches the small crowd’s attention and they look all about, trying to match a visual to the sound. A few of them are looking at him — they remember his story.
They all cry out as a dark-haired man, wearing a snug, white T-shirt over a muscular build, emerges from nowhere astride a motorcycle. His leg stretches out to catch the earth as he slows to smooth halt.
The roar subsides to a restive rumble, and unaffected by the gritty turmoil in the air, the cowboy also emerges from nowhere and swings a leg over the seat of what Zeke will later swear is a 1950’s 6T Thunderbird.
He settles down behind the dark-haired rider. A shy look back at the cowboy is met with a beaming smile and answered with a boyish grin.
The motorcycle roars, and roars again in defiant assertion over the howl of the storm. The cowboy wraps his arms around the rider, and they look ahead as the machine’s rumble deepens and surges forward, back into the nowhere.
And the small crowd squints against the slap of the squall. They watch, uneasy, as Dusty laughs in joyous abandon, and strain to hear the fading roar of a motorcycle — heading west.